


The Boy Who Played Atlas

by philomel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:32:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world falls out from under him when he thinks of Sam.</p><p><span class="small">Set during episode 4.01.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy Who Played Atlas

It catches up with him in the hotel — the hotel room with the horrorshow walls: even in the bathroom they’re bloodbath red. Flashes of Hell come back, razors and strobes, cutting through the dimness. But nothing seems any clearer for it. Never mind that; Dean doesn't want to remember. Even if he should.

There's something else he doesn't want to remember, knows he shouldn't. Flashes of a time before the blackness or the brightness of blood. Before the dogs dragged him off and his brother buried his sack of bones, Dean remembers blood in his hands. Blood like his blood, but not spilled — just warm life beating under the thin sheath of skin. Flesh like his flesh, too much alike and too close. Too close, literally, to see anything more than pieces: flash of wet eyes, glint of teeth under parted lips, flicker of nails carding through hair, hair catching light, catching sweat, falling down. His brother saying goodbye.

The world falls out from under him when he thinks of Sam.

The world has fallen out from under Dean too many times. But he gets back up, always, dusts himself off and walks away, ignoring the pull of muscles, ignoring the lurch in the pit of his stomach that threatens to drop him harder and faster than any physical blow.

When he sits down, he feels like he won't get back up soon. All the digging, all the walking, all the driving for hours, all the fighting to prove he existed — he did it all to get back to Sam. And now that he has, the weight of it fells him, crashes around him and leaves him in the rubble. What is left? There's no digging out of this, no need to. Sam saved him. That's all he needs to know, all he needs to remember. Sam saved him from the fire.

But he didn't save him.

When Dean heard it for the first time, it didn't register. He’d looked at Sam across the room and felt a phantom weight — 15 pounds, maybe more — in his arms. He looks down now and sees his empty arms, elbows bent over his knees, palms up, holding nothing. He remembers saving Sammy. Sam didn't save him.

It's a relief in a way, until it isn't. Who saved him? What saved him? Maybe it doesn't matter. And, so, he thinks it must.

But when he tries to remember, he finds no source of salvation, just screams and whispers and blood in his ears. That's not something to remember. That's not something to hold onto. His only decent memory is Sam. Dean wipes his palms over his knees and looks at the boy across from him who's no longer a boy. Shaggy hair brushed out of his eyes, soft eyes set hard now, hard muscles dwarfing the gangly limbs of a boy Dean once knew. That boy left long ago, more than once. But now Dean knows he's not coming back.

Perhaps that's what makes it seem okay.

For the bright flash of a moment, this isn't his brother. Dean knows him and yet he doesn't know him, and maybe he can forge new memories if he touches him. With tentative fingers, Dean reaches out for Sam. Touches here, below his neck, where a pendant hung for four months but doesn't anymore. Here, on his shoulder, where the skin doesn't raise into puffed, red marks, where no handprint claims him. Here, on his lips, where the thin line parts. Dean leans in, leaves his fingers on Sam’s lips as he presses his mouth over both. Sam’s tongue moves but not to speak, not to say his name over and over again like that time before. _Dean, Dean, oh please, Dean._

That Sam was a different Sam. That Sam was on his knees, pliant and begging, clinging to him, stretching to pull him in.

This Sam pushes back. Dean doesn't realize he's on his feet until he's off them again. Knocked to the floor, bones shuddering. His lips are still warm, prickling with the heat of Sam. His chest burns where Sam shoved him. His hands are hot and raw where they skidded against rough carpet. Blood rushes to his head, makes his ears ring.

Sam crashes down on him like shattered glass. Everywhere, inescapable, biting into him.

Dean raises his arms to shield his head and finds Sam's hands there, fingers curling under to cradle his skull, thumbs dipping into the hollows of Dean's cheeks, one thumbing over his lips, pushing in to drag over his bottom teeth. Sam's hair falls into his face, falls into Dean's where he hovers close, not kissing but breathing steady and sharp, hot bursts of air insistent against Dean's cheek and chin. He tugs hard at Dean's collar and scrapes his teeth — wet and jagged — over Dean's clavicle. One, then the other, then his tongue twists into the hollow of Dean's throat, laps roughly up to his Adam's apple until Dean feels winded and ragged. When Sam licks up his neck to the underside of his ear, stroking the shell of it with his teeth, Dean finally touches him back. He cuffs his arms, traces the length of them, maps the swell and divot of each shoulder, the ridge of his spine, the valley below. Dean can feel the strength in Sam by how much he holds back. Each touch is rough but could be rougher. Every muscle, taut and solid, shakes a little with each shift of movement, one tectonic plate scraping over another. This is it; this is Dean's world. Let it come crash down.

He says Sam’s name with that voice that still refuses to work, his throat resisting the very air it takes, his vocal chords still dusty and dry. Tension in the wire. Everything comes out sounding halfhearted and defeated, even the name of his brother.

Sam sits back on his heels, watching Dean from the shadows of his bangs. Dean goes cold at the lack of contact, colder from the unreadable expression on his brother's face. For a brief moment he wonders if the tests — the silver knife, the holy water — should have been saved for Sam. _Who are you now?_ , he thinks. _Where did you go?_ He flinches as the words echo in his own head.

"Sammy?" he says again, a whisper, less effort on his throat and lungs. He reaches out, his fingers brushing over Sam's thigh, nails catching on the outside seam, thumb rubbing lightly over a dent of muscle beneath the denim. He feels the tension there. Sam is rocking. Minutely, almost imperceptibly rocking on his heels, each breath hard and propelling his body.

It seems that, ever since Dean came back, Sam's been gasping for breath. Funny, when Dean was the one nearly suffocating in a pine box.

When Dean gets up, it's too fast and his head swims. But he shakes it off; it's what he does. He realizes that he was looking for comfort in Sam, but it’s Sam who needs him. His brother needs him now.

Dean touches Sam's face, firm along his jaw. He holds him, holds his gaze. Shows him everything he can. If it's not enough, he hopes it will do. His hand shifts down onto Sam's neck and he circles Sam with his other arm, grips a fistful of shirt and pulls him close. Sam's chest heaves against his own. Dean leans in, buries his face in the exposed side of Sam's neck. He steadies his breathing, best as he can, waits for Sam to fall into rhythm. Waits until it's like a wave rolling off him, rolling back into him. It takes time, but they've got time. They've got time again.

Dean could fall asleep like this. It feels safe, the only safe place left.

But his knees are aching and his back is sore, and Sam's fingers are slipping up under his shirt, skimming inside the waist of his jeans, featherlight. One finger dips into the crease in Dean's backside and Dean's breath hitches, out of time. His grip on Sam slackens and he breathes deep. Pulling back, he watches Sam's hands fall to his thighs, thumbs pushing inward to where Dean aches the most now. He hooks two fingers behind Sam's belt buckle and tugs him close again. Face to face, he rocks their chests together, rolls his hips up until Sam's hands are trapped between them, until Dean's wrist bends at an awkward angle. Then he pulls back again, pulls the belt end from its loop, the metal from its notch, the button from its hole. He opens up his mouth to take Sam's cock before he even gets it out, can feel the heat of it beneath his hands and wants to take it in.

Sam's palm is on Dean's head and Dean's palms go to Sam's hips, pushing him down onto the floor, keeping him down so he can swallow him whole and not choke. He doesn't tease, doesn't linger. Just parts his lips over the red, flared head, widens his mouth, angles his neck so his throat opens raw and dry to welcome the wet, thick heat. It fills him, too much. He forgets to breathe and pulls off, tries again. His nostrils fill with air as he fills his mouth with Sam once more. The salty, sharp tang of him trails up Dean's tongue, bubbles over at the back of his throat when Dean swallows reflexively.

Dean's fingertips curl through the hairs at the base of Sam's cock as he works him, his thumb smoothing light circles over Sam’s balls. He can feel the shift, feel the pull of Sam tightening beneath him.

He remembers the tightness of Sam from before, and pushes his own fingers into his mouth, past the swell of his lips over his teeth, right along Sam's slick length. His fingers shine with spit when he pulls them out, drags them over Sam's sac. They slip easily into the space behind his balls, and Dean lets them slip lower, nudges a knuckle into Sam's perineum, curls his finger against the pucker of skin behind it. Sam's body arcs like a string pulled off the fret. Dean moves with him just in time, pulling off to tongue at the glans. He watches Sam's shirt fall back, exposing his abdomen, watches his hipbones jut high. He pushes Sam back down and pushes a finger inside him. Barely there, just a flicker of nail past the ring, and Sam's moaning. A half an inch more, and his heels twist on the carpet, dig in and push. Dean stills when Sam impales himself on Dean's finger. Sam clenches around it and comes hard and long down Dean's raw throat.

Dean almost gags trying to swallow. Gives up and slides off, lets the last of it dribble over his chin and down. Spits into his shirttail and wipes his mouth on the inside of his sleeve. His finger stays trapped beneath Sam, inside him. He curls it and watches Sam's panting mouth drop into a longer O. Twists and curls again, and watches Sam's lips draw up under biting teeth, his eyes wrinkled tight.

When Dean removes his finger, Sam's face tightens further. Dean moves toward it, wants to undo him, licks at Sam’s lips to unwind him. Sam's eyes snap open. Dark and wide, the hardness is gone. Dean sees Sam there, the Sam he always knew — boy or man or whatever he's become, it's still Sam. The only thing he's ever known for sure.

Sweat trickles along the bridge of Sam's nose and his eyes flutter shut. When he opens them again, he says, "Dean. Dean, please."

It's not like the last time, the first time, awkward and uncertain. It's not like when Sam was a child, messy and needy — for a toy, a snack, an answer. It's not even a plea. It's just a statement, really. Clear and sharp, cutting through the memories. It says _now_.

Not waiting for what he wants, Sam heaves himself up and lets Dean fall back to where he was when this started. In a quick, rough move, Sam yanks his shirt over his head, grabs at Dean's to do the same. The collar catches on Dean's amulet, and Sam shakes it free, watches it fall and drop against the tattoo, horns fitting like a jigsaw into a ray of the inked corona. He straightens it so it settles into the center of Dean's chest where it belongs. It's a tender move, juxtaposed against the brusque tear and pull of Dean's belt, at Dean's fly. Teeth ripping down the zipper so fast that the sound seems more obscene than any other in the room. Sam strips him down to his ankles, jeans bunching stiffly between his feet. He makes quick work of Dean's boots and socks. Does the same to himself until they're both naked.

Light glints off the sweat on their bodies, glints off the too-red walls, deepening the flush on their skin. It looks like they could be burning, and Dean almost laughs at that, can feel it jerk in his belly, rip up the back of his lungs.

But the laughter stops, dry and deadened at his throat. Stops when the air drops out, when Sam drops over him, held up on hands and knees, arms locked at the elbows, sliding forward, his balls dragging up the length of Dean's cock. He drags back down, letting his soft cock trail against Dean's heavy-hard cock. It twitches, stirring. Sam straddles Dean's thighs, lowers his head and takes Dean's amulet between his lips, looks up to meet Dean's half-lidded eyes with his own half-lidded stare. His tongue curls out and runs along the thick cord. He lets it go and it drops wet and warm in the middle of Dean's chest. Sam's tongue follows after it, touching down right below the golden face and going further, lapping at his sternum then curving right under a hard nipple. He licks up to it, worries the tight peak with his teeth, tugging lightly, smiling around it when Dean groans. His teeth close over it, harder, and Dean bucks his hips. Sam sucks at Dean's nipple until Dean is whimpering, then moves to the other and does the same. All Dean can think about, all Dean can feel is Sam's lips on him, Sam's thighs around him, Sam's flat stomach, hot and hitching, hovering close over him but not close enough.

And that quickly it's more than enough. Sam's mouth is off him but his hands are on him, holding his cock in a close fist. He rocks forward, and Dean can feel the crease of Sam's ass against the head of his cock, heat and the invitation of more heat. He reaches for it, grabs Sam and kneads at him, pulls him open and slips further inside along the crease as Sam rolls his hips again. Rolls backward to meet the head in that tight place behind his balls, behind his perineum, where Dean can feel the coarse hairs against his sensitive skin. The ring of muscle teases him, sits against the slit of his cock. Dean can still feel the tightness around his finger, and then it's there, around him, all of him. Sam grips him hard and thrusts down harder and grunts so loud it's nearly a shout.

Dean can't make a sound. All the air escapes his lungs like it was never even there. The only thing there is Sam. _Sam._ And he mouths his name, tastes the consonants against his cracked lips. Sam, his face screwed up tight, doesn't catch it, but he says Dean's name as if responding. Stutters it out like a promise he couldn't keep. Dean stills for a moment when he hears it, then thrusts up against Sam, meets him where he's pinioned. Sam moves faster, slap of skin, wet suck of Dean inside him, being pulled and pulled. Relentless, Sam plunges down so fast Dean lets his hips drop to the floor, lets Sam ride him. Lets him take what he wants, gives what Sam needs.

It's this, it should always be this. No barriers, no distance. Just the weight of Sam bearing down on him. The world and everything.

He quakes when he comes. Sam all around him, he falls apart. Erupts, spilling into him, over and over, so much it hurts. Tight like suffocation. He claws against Sam's hips when he's done, claws against his chest. Pulls himself out and up, for the second time that day. Breathes in the air that's thick between them but feels like it's too light, like it's never enough, never will be enough.

Sam in his arms. Sam inside of him. Sam can't save him. But he tried.

Dean holds his knees close to his chest and watches the reflection of his brother in the mirrored ceiling. Naked on the red floor, flesh and blood.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: zelda-zee.


End file.
